struggled and recovered himself. Yet he felt as though a dark wave had
broken over his head, and he were still amongst the tumbling waters. He
stood before the window and cried out a passionate prayer--to what God
he scarcely knew--yet it soothed him. He put on his hat hastily and
walked out into the streets.

Afterwards he knew that he had stood that night in deadly danger. A
wild craving to escape from himself and his solitude by some unusual
means, beat against the walls of his heart. So far in life, from early
boyhood to manhood, a vigorous love for things beautiful, an intense
self-respect, an Epicureanism half instinctive, half inculcated by his
country life and innate spirituality, had kept him from even the thought
of things evil. Yet to-night the mainspring of his life was out of
gear. It was distraction, instant and immediate, he craved for--of any
kind, almost at any cost. He walked blindly, and a curious sense of
irresponsibility possessed him. The lights of a little restaurant
flared in his face--he entered, and called for wine. He sat at a small
table with champagne before him, and the men and women who crowded the
place looked at him curiously. Doggedly he filled his glass and drank.
Some one came and spoke to him--from whom at another time he would have
turned away, kindly enough, but as from a leper. He shared his wine,
talked purposelessly, and listened. A luminous moment came, however; he
paid his bill, and walked firmly from the place. In the Strand the
church bells were ringing, for it was Sunday. He turned westwards and
walked rapidly towards Westminster.

Even in the porch he hesitated. Since he had left he had never entered
a church nor chapel. The sound of the organ came pealing out to
him--others were passing in, in a little stream; soon he, too, found
himself in one of the back seats.